


What the Ends Mean

by orphan_account



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Post-Game, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Subtle Romance, i might muddle the story don't kill me, joseph is dead im sorry i miss him too, look mom i added new tags, medical references, uhh depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Set after the events of Beacon, Ruvik leads a life waiting on Mobius to track him town. The months after escaping STEM in Leslie Withers's body are spent conditioning him for the fight he assumes will come. It doesn't, and the more he waits, the more he realizes he is changing, that his rage no longer consumes him. Upset about this turn of events, Ruvik turns to the one thing he knows can give him back his sadistic edge: Sebastian Castellanos. Issue is, Ruvik is unprepared for what he learns when he tracks the detective down.Alternatively: Ruvik catches the feels.(PS: I had no idea what to tag this as.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I want to point out that I'm new at the fanfiction game. I've tried to make this as canon as I can, but some things will slip my mind and that's inevitable. I've also tried to get into the characters' heads, just to make the whole thing seem more realistic. My apologies in advance if it's not perfect. Nothing in life is, so just... enjoy, I guess?

_ March him to the scaffold and string him up on high _

_ The call came out from the crowd _

_ There's blood in their eyes and blood in their hearts _

_ For, the blood turning dry on his hands _

“The Preacher” by Jamie N Commons

No one could say how Ruben Victoriano’s brain worked, not even the people who stripped it from his body, still alive and pulsating with hatred. No one could begin to fathom the depths of his psyche, understand the innumerable scars, both corporeal and purely mental, that crisscrossed his very being.

Ruben’s brain, and eventually Ruvik’s brain, worked in ways mysterious to both science and theology. Hate had sustained him beyond hope, beyond faith, a fact he would have liked to rub in his father’s self-righteous face, if the prospect had not been so hollow (not to mention, his father was dead). Ruvik’s mind worked according to its own rules. There was logic, yes, but far too many had assumed that Ruvik’s mind was only a cold, mechanical thing. That simply was not the case. He never could have done what he had without a little imagination; actually, it required a lot of imagination. Machines were reliable and fast, but the connections were point-based, predictable. Ruvik did not need those attributes as much as was the general consensus. Ruvik needed a consciousness like a forest fire. He needed a mind like a military bloodbath. He needed the ideas to overwhelm him, to push him, often violently, from one area of study to the next. Ruvik wanted himself to be able to rush from one thing to another in a matter of nanoseconds--multi-tasking is what everyone else called it. Ruvik preferred to think of it like repelling an invasion. And strike him dead if he had not gotten exceptionally good at it.

The world was not different than when Ruvik had left it. He could argue the world had not changed since the days of mighty Rome, that it had remained the same ever since Gilgamesh’s lust for immortality. Saying that would be easy, just like lumping together all facets of human perception and calling it the “human condition.” It was laughable. The world had not changed much as a whole, but for him it had changed a whole lot.

Heightened perception, heightened awareness: these were two things his momentary godhood had given him. Ruvik had always been able to read people, but now, now there was no effort required to pinpoint their emotions. Everyone he passed on the street, every policeman and emergency responder he crossed paths with outside of Beacon, were open books. They were doors, ajar. Ruvik peered into them with excitement laced with trepidation. The idea of godhood might not have been momentary after all.

But even with that power, Ruvik was stunted by physical exhaustion. He did not push himself. He knew well that a brain needs a protector--the body. The body of Leslie Withers was tired, and Ruvik acquiesced. 

The first blow to his ego came later, when Ruvik attempted to reach  _ outwards _ , which was actually  _ inwards _ towards others’ minds. (It was different than before. While he could scan through emotions, feelings,  _ fears, _ he could not read in-depth without conscious effort.) That was the third day after escaping STEM; the first two he spent resting in his new body.

When he extended his own consciousness, the first few seconds were fine. The later moments were hell, but this time, not one of his own making. Ruvik had faltered, cursed himself after for doing so, but he had faltered nonetheless. He had not been sure what to expect after his little jaunt in the purely metaphysical realm, but it was a given he would come out better than he went in. Strange how things work like that, how harm often does good if given enough time. But isolated, the god of his own universe, Ruvik had forgotten quite a bit about the world he was ripped from. The most shocking was just  _ how much _ of it there was.

There were so many people.

(And Krimson, the metropolis it was, was merely a speck on a global scale.) 

Ruvik underestimated his own reach, and when he went out, or in, rather, the sudden gush of sensory information was overwhelming. It gave him a nose bleed, as if his failure after so much preparation had not been enough of an insult to his injury. His commandeered body almost seized, and it would have, if Ruvik had not been as quick to abort the test as he was. The botched trial left his mind seared with an immeasurable amount of information. It would have taken a small eternity to sift through. Funnily enough, it was one of the more mechanical skills that Ruvik called upon: query. The next question was: what the hell was he looking for? 

What, after creating a world of shattered psychological remnants, torturing those unwitting souls trapped inside it, and possessing the loose title of _the_ _Almighty_ , did he want?

Ah yes, there was a reason for pause.

Ruvik decided to put it off his mind for a while, as ill-fitting as that term was. He redirected his thoughts to something less insubstantial. He focused on his physical self. Once again forced to take care of a body’s needs was a humbling experience, but ever one to surprise--and surprise even himself--Ruvik took great care in constructing a ritual for physical health. The body of Leslie Withers was by no means exceptional, but even so Ruvik did not chastise himself for getting goosebumps when he touched smooth, unscarred skin and realized it was his. There were small things he wished to fix: he would need to work on cardiovascular endurance, upper body strength, and overall muscular stamina, just to name a few. In lieu of his previous projects, this one seemed juvenile. At least, it did, until Ruvik attempted to run a mile.

The days post-STEM melded together in conditioning: conditioning the body, attempting to condition the mind. Ruvik followed a regimen, which was more than he could say about his previous… life. He trained and practiced a lifestyle that was, even with the comfort of a reclaimed hoard of money, austere. Every morning was the same, and each day had little variation. It was only months later, when winter swung in with full force, that Ruvik stopped to think about what he was training  _ for _ . More specifically, he wondered what force he was preparing himself to rise against. 

Mobius? They would come in time, or perhaps never come. Their presence was more of a bruise than a festering wound these days--that sudden realization set Ruvik on edge. It was fear that overtook him next, fear that his own hatred was dwindling, and the fear of the implications. The current domesticity had drained him, made him  _ forget _ . Through all of his trials, his adept ability to cling to past wrongs fueled him. Now, it was a burden. That the burden of his original burden had become a burden was something Ruvik was not prepared to deal with. Yet…

What now was there to do? His ends had been met; revenge, for the most part, had been dealt, person for person, hand to hand. The hatred which sustained him in the past was now useless, and the very inkling of being lost sent to him a passion, a rage. Any smashable item found its way into his clutches, and then found its way to the wall. Ruvik could not command the buildings to splay outwards or make the foundations around him quake. Ruin had to be caused by physicality. Walls here were much stronger, his fist much smaller and far too fragile. Mental anguish meant nothing in this world. His mind, still the scorched earth, still the gory lands of Verdun, was now  _ inconsequential _ . He was trapped,  _ trapped  _ within the thing he had sought after for so long. His dream (here he had chuckled darkly, cradling the scraped knuckles of his hand) had become a nightmare. There had only been one other instance when he had felt so alone; it was a sensation he had relived and relived, but not really lived, not for a long time.

It was then Ruvik realized perhaps he was more like a machine than previously thought, for only machines could so easily turn obsolete.

\--

Early morning was a time of respite. Ruvik woke before the sun to complete his laps around his villa. He enjoyed the crisp air and the dew that sparked in the lamplight. He enjoyed the echo of his footfalls on the pavement as he ran farther into the subdivision; Ruvik remembered when the villa was in the middle of nowhere, when a few miles in each direction would get him nowhere but lost. His family had owned it for a long time, longer than his father’s stewardship of the Victoriano name. They had never visited much. The property and house were neutrally charged. Ruvik was grateful for that.

It was February, and Ruvik’s breath left him in icy puffs. The wind bit him as he ran, but it did nothing to dispel his hatred for thermal (i.e. fitted) clothes. That stemmed from the days of his scars, when every fabric tore at his sensitive flesh. He smiled, realizing even now he wore loose-fitting attire: a long-sleeve shirt, a dark sweatshirt, and dark sweatpants. Old habits die hard, even when transplanted into a new body.

The entrance to the hell-spawn of Suburbia neared, and Ruvik eyed the street where he normally looped back to the villa. Metropolitan areas were useful, but not desireable. Ruvik quirked his mouth again (the running was becoming easier for him) at the thought of socializing. Hell, why not try nightclubbing? He’d rather spit on it than set a foot in a place like that. It was beyond him why anyone would--

Pain. His new body registered pain well. It blossomed across his left side and then spiked across his back. The world was upside down, and he stared at the arriving dawn. 

“Oh fuck! Oh my God!”

The voice came from above and slightly behind him. Ruvik wasted no time in rising, propping himself up on his elbow. He stared at a car, the headlights searing his eyes. The driver appeared next to him, an older man, or perhaps not; it was hard to tell. The man was flustered, panic etched over every feature of his face. He bent down and Ruvik arched away from him, from the touch, from the concern.

“Jesus kid, are you okay? Shit, what the hell are you doing running all in black?”

“Minding my own business.” Ruvik spat. He checked his body for any serious injuries, the results a reassuring negative. He leaned to the side again, dragging his leg up under himself to get enough leverage to stand. He ached, but nothing was broken. The bruise would be superb, though.

“Apparently not well enough!” the stranger barked. Ruvik turned his attention back to the man, who, upon discovering Ruvik was not about to die anytime soon, had backed up. He fished in his pocket for his phone. “Look what you did to my car!”

Ruvik looked. There was a dent near the front, on the passenger side. Ruvik scowled at it, ripped it apart in analysis. The man had been turning--speeding while turning, obviously--but it was the angle and somewhat reduced speed which saved Ruvik’s life.

“My apologies.”

“Your apologies my ass!” the man said. Ruvik’s gaze slid to him yet again, and he froze when he saw the glowing phone in the man’s hand.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t call the police.” Ruvik’s voice grew deeper at the command. It sounded more like him, the old him, gravelly and direct. The stranger glanced up, irritation and anger knotted together in his brow.

“What? Why? This is an accident. I need to report it. And you,” the man jabbed a thick finger at Ruvik, “You are going to pay for that.”

“I’ll pay for it without the police. Give me your address.”

“Like hell I will! I’m doing this the right way! I don’t need jail time--Ah yes, yes hello. I’d like to report an automobile accident.”

The man’s mind came into focus like a firefly at the end of a train tunnel. His presence was trivial, his mind less than a dust mote in the air. Ruvik ground his teeth as he went deeper, surging past memories and desires that would amount to nothing in the world. Ruvik’s grip circled around the man’s consciousness and he pulled… to no avail. Panic and anxiety wound the man into tight lumps. Ruvik knew that ploy, but he had no time to break down defenses. He growled somewhere, sometime. It was more of a feeling than an action. Ruvik could not force his way in, but he could charm.

**“Put the phone down.”** he spoke. The man, with his movements slowed from his current hyper-suggestive state, lowered the phone, but the complacency did not last long.

“Why?”

**“Hang up the call.”**

The man did.

“I need to call the police.”

**“No, you will not call the police.”**

“I just hit a man with my car.”

**“You will not report it.”**

“Why?”

Ruvik swept his gaze around.

**“You were driving without your headlights. You hit a man because you were driving without headlights. If you file a report, you will be the guilty one.”**

The man’s face stilled, the planted realization taking root. Ruvik withdrew and watched as the man stumbled into his car, eyes glazed, and revved the engine. Inside, the man looked down. He switched from  _ park  _ to  _ drive. _ Ruvik retreated to the sidewalk as the man sped off, back the way he came, his headlights stuck on the brightest setting.

The ache of impact came back with full force now that his mind was no longer preoccupied, and Ruvik swayed in the growing light. He glanced down at his pants and noticed some parts of the material were shredded. Grimacing, he started back for his villa, walking instead of running.

Physical pain, like most things, was mind over matter. Ruvik forced himself to think in order to distract himself. His leg would not buckle and his breathing would remain steady if he refused to think about them. Naturally his thoughts led to the police, more specifically the KCPD. Even more specific, Ruvik thought of a certain detective by the name of Sebastian Castellanos. He succeeded in distracting himself.

How utterly repugnant it would be for Sebastian to have found him like  _ that, _ roadkill on the highway outside of Krimson. What would that be like? Nothing, Ruvik corrected himself. Sebastian would never get close to him before falling to pieces, the very fibers of his existence washed away on a sea of cigarette smoke. What Ruvik would not give to see the detective crying whiskey tears; even here it would be good enough. Sebastian had not cried within the depths of STEM, but maybe he would in the real world.

Ruvik arrived home before he realized it, the ache gone, replaced with much missed ferocity. His hate had not dwindled; he had merely been too far from the object of his hate.

Ruvik spun on the porch, casting his eyes towards the suburb--towards Krimson City. He smiled a smile of bloodcurdling animosity, of a god of destruction just woken from slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Beacon, Sebastian has not been doing well. Just how bad remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Sebastian's point of view. I don't plan on writing him as much, but we'll see.  
> Just a quick mention: О боже is kind of like "oh my god." (I think. I'm sort of learning Russian but on my own so it's slow going. Want to correct me? Please do!) Also, sorry for the shorter length of this chapter. I have no idea how long these will be on average.

_ And our screaming _

_ Is in his screaming _

_ Our screaming in the willow _

“Gallows” by CocoRosie

Sometime in the dead of the night, a scream rang out in the street.

Murder, Sebastian decided, and rolled back over. Nothing he could do--no one cared until the morning, not really. Should they have cared? Should  _ he _ have cared? Absolutely. Did he muster enough strength to stand and glance out the window? No, he did not. He faced the wall, scratchy blankets eating his chin while his constant inner monologue ate at his head.

_ Do something, Sebastian. Go outside, shoot something. God knows you’re good enough  _ now _. Save a poor girl, Sebastian, maybe get her number. _

Things had not always been this way. It was better in his youth, when Sebastian held less things close to his heart, when he had fewer things to give a damn about. His self-loathing had become ridiculous and its acidity ate at his soul. But then again, what didn’t? The big stuff he had learned to shrug off, or he thought he had. Murder and abuse came with the job. They were expected. Sebastian had been on a one-track railway line for years; shit like that beaded up and rolled off his back. Somehow, he still found himself swimming in it.

Sebastian looked to the darkest corner of his bedroom and fancied he could see forms within the darkness. Maybe he did--that would not have surprised him at this point. He fancied he could hear laughter, its familiar quality bouncing from the ceiling to the floor, floor to ceiling. His apartment had become claustrophobic lately, but that was how he wanted it. If packed correctly, every item stacked into a dense wall, there would be less free room. There would be fewer places to hide.

Consciousness wasn’t like that. Sebastian only needed a thread of sanity to give his monsters enough room to evade logic. Insanity was just acknowledging what he’d truly been afraid of all along--he knew the monsters were there.  _ Ruvik _ had helped him with that. Sebastian teetered near the precipice (he had for a long while) and looked down on his future without sanity as an emotionless being, an observer. In a way, he wanted it. There would be no more hiding from either party (because damn, hiding was exhausting). He and all of his demons would walk around together, maybe do the waltz, offer each other formal hello’s and how-do-you-do’s, and all Sebastian had to do was prepare for the moment he turned his back on them. All he had to do was brace for the pain of a thousand red-hot claws digging into his back, ripping out his guts. The first time would be the last, but the longer Sebastian stayed in bed, the longer he stared into the shadows, the quicker he learned he was okay with that.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” he called into the darkness. “You little fucker! This is what you wanted, isn’t it! Get out of my head! Crawl back into the corner of hell you came out of, okay? Can you do that for me, can you do that for  _ me, _ your  _ survivor _ ? Fucking parasite,  _ fucking  _ parasite!”

The darkness did not answer; the imagined laughter was gone. Sebastian heard a small bang above him, but did not process it. He clutched the blankets tighter, fingers aching, and squeezed his eyes shut as if his head would provide a safe haven--it was his head, above all, that Sebastian wanted to escape.

Then there was a knock on his door.

Paranoia was commonplace now. Sebastian’s eyes flew open and he listened to make sure it was not a hallucination. Three seconds, four…  _ knock. _ Knuckles on the door, not the butt of a gun, not the sound of a chainsaw. Momentary relief aside, Sebastian grabbed his pistol (one of them) from the nightstand before he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

All of Sebastian’s belongings were arranged in a maze. There were nightlights in all of the outlets and they cast a pale blue-green glow on the floor. They outlined the mounds of stuff, the paths Sebastian had formulated and moved again and again. He counted his steps to the door and paused. He shouldered the couch away from the entrance (fire safety be damned, at least he’d go out like Lily that way), just as another knock rang out.

“Who is it?” he growled. 

“It’s me, open up.”

Sebastian furrowed his brow and then sighed. He did as he was told.

The light from the hallway blinded him and Sebastian raised a hand to block it, the same hand that held the gun.

“ О боже! Castellanos! Put that thing away!”

As his vision cleared, Sebastian saw a woman, petite, plump, and all tired-eyed scowl.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want you to stop screaming obscenities in the late hours of the night.” the woman spat. With her hands on her hips she looked almost comical, in a “woman-you-definitely-don’t-want-to-fuck-with” kind of way. Sebastian had to admit that he was, in some way, glad to see her.

“Sorry, Marisha.”

“Yeah well, so am I.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he grumbled.

“I mean…” Marisha trailed off, closing her eyes and sighing through her nose. “All of this is hard to watch, Sebastian. You’re a better man than this--”

Sebastian snorted.

“Don’t give me that bullshit!”

“I didn’t realize that the truth was bullshit.”

“You’re pushing your luck Castellanos!” the woman shouted, and then grimaced and looked down the hall, at all the other dormant apartments. When she spoke, her voice was softer but more deliberate. Her accent bled thickly into the words. “I have to get up at five-thirty to drive Zoyenka to her doctor’s appointment. The poor girl was puking up her guts until ten-thirty last night and only managed to fall asleep at midnight. Cue you and your drunken ravings, and she wakes me up whispering: Auntie, Auntie, Sebastian’s scared again.” Marisha shoved a finger into Sebastian’s chest as he stood, wide eyed, while she continued. “What do you think that’s doing for her, Sebastian? Would you want Lily to see you like this?”

“No.”

The answer left Sebastian’s lips before the thought of speaking crossed his mind. Marisha pulled back, the look on her face beyond pity. Sebastian hated it, but he knew he deserved it.

“Do something for yourself. I don’t care what. You’ve hit rock bottom. Bring a hooker home as long as you’re quiet. Join a poker club. Smoke some pot for all I care. Do something to pull yourself out of this spiral!”

“I know.” Sebastian said, and it sounded dumb. It sounded like a question. Marisha huffed and scratched her ear, displacing one of her hair curlers. She hummed in discontent as she rolled it back up.

“I didn’t know Myra, but I can see the pain she left. And you know what, I think she’s a coward. She’s a coward to leave after something like that.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Sebastian scoffed, but he could not tear his eyes away from his neighbor’s gaze. There was something in her eyes akin to wisdom, a pureness that could not be mistaken for youth, a  _ worldliness _ . Even if he disagreed, it felt nice to hear someone say it, to speak Sebastian’s doubts out loud, and to do so fearlessly.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about. Jack and I…” Marisha paused and pursed her lips. There was still a remnant shade of whatever dark lipstick she wore the day before. It was gritty, real, and Sebastian found it as fascinating as it was grounding.

“You what?” Sebastian urged. For the life of him he did not want her to stop talking, even if her words were going to hurt.

“We talked about this ourselves, if, you know, Zoyenka doesn’t make it. We’re going to stay together. Even if there’s no… spark anymore. We need the company, the support. Even if we fall out of love, it will be better than being alone. After something like that, well, only the people who have been through the same thing can offer any kind of support.”

“Is Zoey…” Sebastian refused to finish the sentence.

“No, no. She’s doing well so far. I mean, she has her doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

“Will you let me know?”

Marisha looked up, her brow smoothing, and smiled.

“Yeah, I will. I’ll let you know.” She checked her watch, the time appearing on the digital display as she flicked her wrist. “Do you see this thing, Castellanos? Wonder of the modern world… I need to go. I have to get some sleep. Jack should be home at nine. Do you want me to tell him to check on you?”

“Shit, no!” Sebastian laughed, and it was a little less hollow than he anticipated.

“Get your act together. I may be short, but I’ve kicked my fair share of drunken ass back home.” Marisha warned.

“That could count as threatening an officer of the law.” 

“Oh please! I’ve bribed you with my cooking before. It won’t be any different now.” Marisha flashed her own tired grin. She nodded a final parting, curlers bobbing on her head, and then turned and walked to the elevator at the end of the hallway. Sebastian watched her for a moment, until the last of her neon pink sleep pants disappeared into the elevator. Even when she was gone, he remained, leaning against the doorframe as if it were his only anchor to this world. When he turned and looked back into the dismal array of his apartment, Sebastian found himself choking up. It could have been memories of Lily or his worry for Zoey. It could have been the resignation his neighbor couple had been forced to plan out. Maybe it was Myra, coming back to haunt him.

Sebastian shut the door and sank to his knees. He ran his hands over the gun, but the cold metal gave him nothing, not even the hope of a way out. He tossed it and it skidded across the floor. The noise it made was unnerving in the darkness. It reminded him of a time that wasn’t really a time. An experience, then, one more bleary nightmare in a long line of exhausting dreams. The word “coward” repeated itself over and over in his mind.

“Myra,” he whispered to the nothingness. “If you’re a coward, what does that make me?”

There was no answer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruvik finally tracks Sebastian down, but the meeting is not what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, I think I dug myself a hole with this one. Ruvik just needs someone to love T.T   
> I was meaning to get this out sooner, but my brain has been fried with the heat where I live. Today it's 114 degrees Fahrenheit (45 Celsius) and tomorrow it's gonna be about 120 degrees Fahrenheit (49 Celsius). UGH. CAN'T DO ANYTHING.   
> I didn't put as much editing effort into this one, so I'm sorry if there's a mistake.   
> AND THANK YOU, EVERYONE WHO ENJOYS THIS! I LOVE Y'ALL!

_ I push you away, _

_ Although I wish you could stay _

_ So many words left unsaid _

_ But I'm all out of breath _

“Sinking Man” by Of Monsters And Men

 

It was difficult to find him, more difficult than Ruvik had anticipated. He began with the initial information surge of months prior, sifting through stolen knowledge--querying. It was impossible to do so in one day. Others’ minds were tangled, labyrinthine places. Ruvik needed to leave trails, gossamer-thin lines that connected one thought to another and led back to his initial focus; he tied the end of his first string off at the KCPD. He hopped from imprinted person to imprinted person, ignoring bias, focusing on the facts. Thousands of opinions, half-formed and useless, crowded the cerebral road. Like a forest, it was easy to get lost in. Distraction would cost time, and Ruvik was impatient.

Castellanos was elusive, little more than a fleeting side note in people’s minds,  _ if _ he was there at all. That discovery was jarring, for it spoke of the detective out of character. Ruvik had  _ seen _ him, how he acted, how he flashed the blatant cliches he claimed as a personality around with abandon. Sebastian Castellanos was not an easy man to escape the mind.

Ruvik frowned a bit at the thought, even if it was true. He would use it to his advantage, nothing more.

Then, somewhere along the line, a bubble of knowledge--a recent homicide illustrated through the eyes of an over-zealous reporter--rose from the confused mists of many a collective consciousness. (The corpse of a young man was found in a ditch, the murderer eventually caught, then trial and sentencing.) The entire snippet was devoid of any mention of Sebastian Castellanos. Pity the man had somehow learned how to lessen his footprint on the world. It was not the outcome Ruvik wanted, but there  _ was _ time, even if he was reluctant to sacrifice it.

Ruvik tied the end of his thread there, and opened his eyes.

The sunset-stained drawing room phased in around him. The windows faced it, the lack of curtains allowing the light to bleed in undeterred. Ruvik hated this room. His family had rarely used this villa, but they  _ had, _ a couple of times. The furniture here was red and plush, a mixture of blood and velvety wine. The wood was stained dark, the color a mention of a former time, of memories that still ghosted through the halls, little whispers that bit when Ruvik’s mind aligned with them. Like now, for example.

The red was the same color as Laura’s favorite dress. Her hair had been even darker than the wood. The summer they had been there had been hot. The sun stayed high in the sky late into the night. Laura had occupied herself by catching fireflies, sometimes frogs. Ruvik had remained on the grass, staring into the heavens, angered that he could not see the stars (when young Ruben had thought the stars held any promise for him). He had paid no attention to his sister, not then. She had said something--it was inconsequential now--probably something that bruised his ego, and so he left her alone. In youthful naivety, Ruben had thought his presence a gift, and his absence, a punishment. Laura, however, had continued her endeavors, simply stepping around him, and Ruben sulked. It was while he sulked that Laura fell into the pond; the splash was what alerted him. He ran to her just as she was climbing back up the embankment, but he stopped before he reached her. Her hair twisted down her back in midnight-colored curls, and her dress was soaked. It was a new dress. The red dye dripped from the hem and left streaks in the grass. Somehow within his childish perception, Ruben had interpreted the droplets as blood. He had cried, maybe because he thought she was dead--though logically he knew she was alive--and his tears were an outlet for his fear. Was she a ghost, returning to exact vengeance upon her careless little brother? No. Laura had gathered him up, whispering to calm him down, and stained his clothes with her red.

The clock chimed, and Ruvik opened his eyes again. He had not realized he had closed them. His hands ached, and he looked down to where he had clutched the armrests, the red fabric mounding up between his pale fingers. The sun was past the horizon and the room was now cast in purple. Ruvik snorted; it looked like his bruise.

Standing up hurt, but it was a dull hurt, nothing Ruvik couldn’t handle. The bruise would remain for a while, the enormous spot a reminder of his folly, but also his realization. All he needed now was for Sebastian to cooperate, but as Ruvik ascended the stairs to bed, he admitted that perhaps that was easier said than done. Sebastian Castellanos was one of the most uncooperative men he had ever met in his life, and Ruvik had once called a mental hospital his second home.

At the remembrance, Ruvik smiled.

\--

There was no morning run. Ruvik wanted Castellanos found. He dressed and ate half-stale toast and washed the dryness down with water. He returned to the red room,  _ Laura’s Room, _ dare he even call it that. But the emotions it evoked were needed. They made it easier to slip into minds and walk with grounded feet. Like an old diver with weighted boots, Ruvik needed the control at all times. It was far too easy to get lost in others’ lives.

He sat where he had the previous day and ran his fingers over the armrests of the chair. He calmed his mind, as if preparing for meditation. Then, he leaned back and let his head droop, breath coming smoothly. He felt the chair under him, and by extension, the floor and the rest of the house. Ruvik slipped into a state of hyper-sensitivity, the first step into the purely mental realm. If another person had been in the house, in the vicinity even, Ruvik could have heard their heartbeat. There was no one, and that was reassuring. He fell deeper. Ruvik felt the breeze outside and let himself drift, hitching a ride on the vibrations of a world composed of thoughts.

It was Friday morning in the suburbs. If there was one word Ruvik could use to describe the feelings of so many, it would be anticipation. People had plans. Women and men drove to work, fingers tapping the steering wheel to the song on the radio, awaiting the evening. Some were going to the movies, others would wait until Saturday to shop. All of them loathed work. Some were going on vacation, and even more had plans for a few months from now. Summer, when Krimson was a little less dismal, easy to escape but bearable if one had to stay. Students longed for the warmer weather and the break from their studies. People missed one another.

That was all useless. Ruvik needed blood, memories of blood. Knives, bullet casings, official reports. Ruvik needed sorrow and pain and anger, most of all. The suffering would lead him to what he wanted, it always had.

Ruvik hopped from the suburbs to the downtown area of Krimson. He could smell the stale alcohol, the depressing scent of unwashed bodies and corners full of human refuse. Dirty and secretive, it was a taste of what Ruvik desired, but nothing more. He ground his teeth. Where the  _ hell _ had that man gone?

_ Fine, then.  _

Ruvik stood, able to see without looking. He navigated through the house and exited onto the back porch. He walked until the villa was little more than a child’s plaything tossed aside in a sea of cold dirt. There was a field out back, and the sky was clear there, no obstructions, no unwanted interference. Ruvik’s mind was a signal, something pervasive, it always had been. That was what the doctors and nurses and  _ experts _ had all failed to realize: Ruvik was the first, an anomaly, and if given enough time and space, there was nothing he couldn’t do.

Even then, Ruvik needed the clearest spot for what he was about to try. The loathing he possessed for his own memories was not commonplace angst, for they had crafted the intricate hell of the STEM. It was memory which trapped Ruvik within himself. But they could be useful, when he controlled them. Remembered hatred for his parents gave him strength and Laura’s serene image calmed him. She was his anchor. Sebastian kept him occupied. He was a thorn under Ruvik’s old skin, and Ruvik had learned very quickly not to pick at those scars. But… Sebastian  _ was _ there, that old connection still intact, buried under skin, sure, a declaration spoken in the STEM. Ruvik was sure Sebastian would never forget it.

Sebastian, a man who smoked too much, who drowned his pain in alcohol. A weak being, Sebastian Castellanos. He who wore his sorrow on his face, who allowed his anger and self-pity to dictate his words. A man who existed without aim, running at all times from the things which scared him. A primal being, an antediluvian human who learned it was better to hide than challenge. That was his game now, was it not? Hiding. It wouldn’t work.

“You’re mine.” Ruvik whispered, and somewhere, in a small apartment in a half-slum of Krimson, Sebastian heard him. 

It was panic that first washed over Ruvik, waves so thick he almost mistook the emotion for his own. Whatever Sebastian was doing--cooking, it seemed, for the sound of a shattered plate assaulted Ruvik’s ears--was forgotten as the man whirled around. Ruvik saw him in his mind’s eye. 

_ “Fuck! The hell is…” _

There was not language for the elation Ruvik felt at the man’s fear. It surged within him, a heat that consumed his body. There was contact, and Ruvik would not let it go to waste.

“Hello, Sebastian.”

Sebastian arched over the sink, his shoulders drawn up as if to protect himself. Ruvik adjusted his sight to witness the terror spread across the detective’s face… but there was none. Sebastian stared down at his hands. They clutched the lip of the counter so hard his knuckles were white. His arms trembled, but there was no fear in his eyes. His brows were drawn together, but not in pain. Resignation, perhaps, but an oxymoron of determined resignation.

_ “I was pretty sure you were alive.” _ Sebastian said. His voice was smoother than it should have been, the ragged edge more from chain-smoking than Ruvik’s presence. Ruvik did not answer immediately. Confusion wormed in at the edges of his psyche but he pushed it down. Control. Ruvik had the control.

“No? Even after all that you did to kill me?”

_ “It would have been a worse sin to underestimate you,” _ Sebastian laughed, straightening from his hunched position. He turned to face the rest of the room and gave it a lopsided grin.  _ “Than to figure you alive, I mean. After all this, it’s pretty fuckin’ insulting you still think I’m some sort of unintelligent mongrel.” _

That was surprising.

_ “It’s not like I saw you walk out or anything.” _

“So you’ve been waiting for this.” Ruvik spoke. He kept the words emotionless, suddenly finding himself on thin ice. This was not how it was supposed to go.

_ “Yeah, I dreaded it for a while. But you know, I don’t think it can get any worse at this point. I mean, shit, it’s almost good to hear your voice, you psychopath.” _

Ruvik faltered. Something wasn’t right.

_ “So when are you going to show up and kill me?” _

“I’m not going to kill you.”

_ “Okay, okay. Torture and then kill. Maybe I should call my insurance. It’s not good to keep patients waiting, doctor.” _

“You’re not my patient.”

_“Oh, I’m not? Well fuck, I thought I was special!”_ Sebastian reeled back with a sneer and kicked a chair over. The noise was amplified to Ruvik’s senses. _“Do you think it will be easy to get into my mind again?”_

“Yes.” Ruvik said. That was the reality. Ruvik was in control. He had the power to command the borderland between nightmares and reality. He had the power at his fingertips. Sebastian Castellanos was nothing. He was not special.

_ “If you want to try, be my guest. You’ve never been the only one in pain Ruvik.”  _ Sebastian spat his name.  _ “Your greatest mistake wasn’t using your pain to fuel your fucked-up fantasies, it was transferring it to us. You can try to get into my mind, but I know how you work just as well as you know how I do.” _

“You think your imagined insights will save you?”

_ “Well I don’t know. All I know is that I’m still here, vulnerable flesh and blood, and you’re floating around like a ghost, refusing to show your face.” _

“I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re implying.”

_ “And I’m not afraid of you.” _

Ruvik left. He pulled back, mind slingshotting into his body. When he opened his eyes, he was on the ground, sparse weeds and dry earth under him. He blinked to orientate himself before sitting up. His villa was a good walk away and the sun had climbed farther overhead.

Sebastian Castellanos was fighting him.

This was different than in the STEM. This resistance was not with conjured guns and gore-splattered axes. Sebastian had stood tall before him, Ruvik, the god of his own making. The man had not even flinched.

Ruvik stood and dusted himself off. He eyed the villa and then headed toward it.

Sebastian claimed to know him, to know how he worked. It was… absurd. Ruvik tried to scoff, but the sound that came from his lips was more like a whimper. What did that man know about pain, about hate?

Ruvik’s mind answered him, against Ruvik’s own wishes: only what  _ you’ve  _ taught him. It was that thought that made  Ruvik shudder. No one had ever claimed that; even if they had, no one could ever have been able to back that statement up. Now there was Sebastian, defying him,  _ antagonizing  _ him. 

Ruvik stumbled in the back door, trying to keep the sudden nausea at bay. His vision blurred and his hands shook as he prepared a glass of water. Perhaps his new body was not ready for what he had done. Ruvik needed rest, he needed…

Someone to understand him.

He slapped that thought away as it appeared. No one could say how Ruvik’s brain worked, not those at Beacon, not the cronies of Mobius--certainly not Sebastian Castellanos. Certainly not the man who had survived Ruvik’s hell, certainly not the man who had fought every monstrosity Ruvik imagined. Certainly not…

Ruvik barely made it back to Laura’s room. He collapsed in the plush chair, exhausted. For the first time in a long time, he dreamed. He dreamed of Sebastian Castellanos dressed in red.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruvik decides to visit Sebastian again, but this time without Sebastian's knowledge. A little detour derails the whole plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... here is where Ruvik catches the feels. You also get to learn some Jeopardy questions and answers!   
> солнышко means like "little sun" and is used how English speakers call someone "sunshine."  
> The song lyrics I chose for this are from my all-time favorite song, so go check it out! ;)  
> (I also made my self-appointed 5 day deadline for chapters. Woohoo! Still going strong! And this is a longer chapter! Double woohoo!)

_ I took a little journey to the unknown _

_ And I come back changed, I can feel it in my bones. _

_ I fucked with forces that our eyes can’t see, _

_ Now the darkness got a hold of me, _

_ Holy darkness got a hold of me. _

“Meet Me in the Woods” by Lord Huron

  
  


Tenacity was a virtue. In all of his life Ruvik had never given up on anything. Tenacity was the trait he could thank for his intelligence--not the raw kind, but the learned kind--and it was the trait he could blame for his current circumstances. But self-hate led only to an impassible brick wall, and Ruvik would not let those emotions get in his way, just like he would not allow Sebastian to do this to him.

Ruvik went back the next night, drifting on the cerebral wind of the meaningless populace until he recognized the outside of Sebastian’s apartment building in his mind’s eye. The vision flickered in and out and Ruvik reminded his body to breathe, to remain calm. Slipping out of his physical shell had been more difficult this time, and it took none of Ruvik’s genius to understand why. But if he focused on the anxiety, it would worsen, and the opportunity for observing would be dissolved in the churning of fate. Ruvik did not focus on it.

Sebastian’s apartment building was horrendous. It possessed the same architectural appeal as a Lego building, though its structure seemed less reliable. Patients at Beacon could have designed it better, given how adept some were at building blocks.

In the parking lot outside, people gathered on the tailgates of trucks, spending their Saturday night drinking and pulling at one another.  _ Society _ , Ruvik dismissed, and moved on. There was a playground to the back of the building, directly opposite from the parking lot. The toys were rusty, but the influx of emotions around the area told that they were all well loved. One of the swings swayed in the breeze, and Ruvik thought briefly of Leslie and how he loved to swing. The thought was a simple mention, just information recall. Ruvik needed to accept those memories, for pushing them away would be more difficult and more dangerous as time went on. He didn’t care, no, not at all. The swing was a simple stimulus, and it was Ruvik’s choice whether or not to pin regret to it. He chose not to, especially this close to Castellanos. 

_ Focus. _

Sebastian’s apartment was on the fifth floor, on the outside. The single window was covered in a blackout curtain and not difficult to locate. Ruvik paused outside of it. Entering via Sebastian’s consciousness would be too forward; Ruvik only wanted to study this time, not engage. There was the challenge; finding someone else compatible to use as a bridge was not a reassuring prospect, not here in the slums of Krimson. 

The stipulations of Ruvik’s tenacity dictated he scour the building regardless. So he did.

Spread out before him, on the mental rather than the physical plane, the building glowed a sort of blueish-green light. (It wasn’t light, not really. Rather, it was how Ruvik interpreted the minds around him. Colors spoke of levels of intelligence and compatibility, surging in and out of rooms, dimming and growing.) The orbs moving within were tenants, all humans, burning with self-awareness. Ruvik tasted Sebastian on the electric air, his form more yellow than those around him. The inconsistent flares of brightness hinted Sebastian was asleep and that he was dreaming. The psyche revealed incredible things when a person dreamed. Ruvik hovered closer, wanting a look but not daring to make a full connection. Then the swing on the playground screeched, rusty chains grinding on the rusty bar. 

_ Again, focus. _

Ruvik drifted up, two floors above Sebastian and down the hall. There he found the anomaly, half hidden by the mediocrity of the two others in the apartment, dampened by illness. But there it was, nevertheless. It drew him in.

It was a girl. She could not have been more than ten years old, her youthful skin stretched tight over jutting bones. She sat cross legged on the dirty carpet of the living room, coloring. When her hand jerked and the marker passed the thick black line, she would scowl at the picture, take a breath, and then continue. Near her a woman sat on a sofa, painting her toenails. The woman had long dark hair tied up in rollers; the girl had fine caramel tufts, barely enough to pull into a ponytail. In the far corner of the room was a man, sprawled out on a recliner and snoring in the bright light of the television.  _ Jeopardy _ was on, though no one seemed to be watching it.

_ “The Evil Eye is a superstition dating back to ancient times of an ability to do one harm by glaring with malicious intent. This 20th Century dictator was terrified of the Evil Eye.” _

The girl glanced up from her coloring book and looked to the woman. The woman looked to her.

_ “Do you know that one,   _ солнышко _?” _

_ “Mussolini.” _

_ “Let us see.” _

The girl was correct. She gave a small smile and returned to her coloring, her movements more methodical, as if being correct was a small respite for her unhealthy body. The category soon switched from history to literature. The woman sat up on the couch and patted the girl’s head. 

_ “Here, watch this one. I’ll keep score.” _

_ “Okay.” _

Ruvik observed (that was what he was there for, was it not?), settling in to monitor the young girl’s answers. Trivial knowledge meant little in the way of real intelligence, but it did speak for a person’s ability for memorization.

_ “This 1895 novel is subtitled ‘An Invention.’” _

_ “The Time Machine.”  _ the girl answered. She was correct again.

_ “1913 poem that includes a line ‘A nest of robins in her hair.’” _

_ “Trees by Joyce Kilmer.” _

Correct.

_ “Made a baron in the early 1880’s, he was the first Englishman elevated to that rank for literary work alone.” _

_ “Alfred Lord Tennyson.” _

Correct.

_ “The name of this author who died in 1924 has become an adjective meaning surreal or nightmarish.” _

_ “Franz Kafka, and the word is Kafkaesque.” _

_ “How did you know that one?” _

_ “I looked it up.” _ the girl stated. She glared down at her coloring.  _ “I needed a word for my dreams. Kafkaesque fits nicely.” _

_ “Zoyenka...” _

_ “In the 16th Century he wrote, ‘Whoever wishes to found a state… must start with assuming that all men are bad…’” _

_ “That’s Machiavelli. He wrote  _ The Prince. _ ” _

_ “When did you read that?” _

_ “It’s public domain. ‘Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.’ That’s another good quote.” _

_ “God, go to bed, little freak.” _

The woman planted a kiss on the girl’s head, ruffling the tufts of her hair. The girl sighed and gathered her things, her movements sluggish. She stuck her tongue out at the woman before she retreated down the hall. Ruvik followed.

Zoyenka’s room was small and tidy, lined with shelves. The only furniture was a bed and a desk; it had been thrown together in a hurry. The man and woman in the living room were not her parents, Ruvik decided. They were family, perhaps an aunt and uncle.

Zoyenka did not change her clothes, but crawled into bed fully dressed and wrapped multiple blankets around her. There was a sudden pang of understanding; coldness was always the curse of the sickly-thin. Ruvik knew that well, remembered how, after getting the burns, after being so disgusted by heat, he was always cold. The girl also had insomnia--fatigue radiated from her in static-y waves. Another memory, another relatable pain, and emotion boiled up inside Ruvik. It was not pity, for this girl did not deserve that. Respect, perhaps, for another life going about with the knowledge her days were far fewer than the people she saw on the street.

Ruvik moved closer. Zoyenka’s fear spilled into him, across the gap of the physical and nonphysical. That was how it had been with Leslie, though far less intense before STEM, their very essences fueling and eating one another at the same time. Zoyenka was afraid. She was in pain. Ruvik knew both. He understood both.

Zoyenka’s color in Ruvik’s coded world was bright gold, the strong yellow of a sunflower field in the middle of summer. His touch washed over her, easing her screaming mind. How many nights had Ruvik spent with his thoughts laced with the same inconsolable dread? It was one of the worst truths of reality: what happened once could happen again.

Sleep took a hold of her, Zoyenka’s small from relaxing under her mound of blankets. Ruvik stayed, his mental caress leading her into a calm sleep. Still, her mind sparked with memories, their flavors foreign and somehow comforting. Ruvik heard the sound of her mother’s voice (dead mother, he gathered). He listened to lullabies in soft-sung Russian, felt the sting of snow on the back of his neck. Zoyenka made snow angels in her sleep, and suddenly Ruvik was there, lying next to her. She turned to him, entrenched in her own snow angel wings. Her breath came in small white puffs.

“Who are you?”

Ruvik didn’t answer. He was still unsure of how the girl had sucked him into her consciousness, the uncertainty scathing.

“What  _ happened  _ to you?”

Ruvik glanced down at himself. The now familiar vision of Leslie Withers’s body was nowhere to be seen. Ruvik was  _ Ruben  _ here, but after the accident. His face was covered in bandages again, all other skin carefully hidden under sleeves and long pants. The gauze itched; he wanted to scratch it. He had tried so hard to forget that feeling.

“Do you need help?” Zoyenka’s voice rang out in icy field. It was strong here, clear like it wasn’t in the dark apartment.

“No, I’m fine.”

Zoyenka huffed and flopped back over on her back.

“Did you get burned?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I haven’t ever been burned. I don’t think I like fire very much, though. Sebastian’s little girl died in a fire.”

Ruvik sat up, flinching at the forgotten pain caused by sudden movements.

“Who?”

“The man downstairs. He’s a detective. He watches me when Auntie has to work late.”

“Sebastian Castellanos?”

“You know him too?” Zoyenka asked, a grin spreading across her face. “Seb is kind of weird, but he tells the best stories. Auntie says it’s an unhealthy obsession, but I love hearing about murders. Sebastian tells me some of the things he saw, when he was active. Him and his partner Joseph used to answer the craziest radio calls. One time there was a naked guy playing a saxophone in the street.” 

Zoyenka’s giggle echoed in every direction.

“There was no murder in that one.” she clarified. Her eyes then drifted over Ruvik’s face, unwavering across the blank stretches of gauze. “How do you know him?”

Ruvik faltered, his words turning to stone.

“Right, you’re just a dream man. You’re just me, in another body.” Zoyenka sighed. 

It began to snow.

“I must… go now.” Ruvik said.

“Alright. You’re a nice dream man. I hope you’ll be one of the recurring ones.”

Zoyenka closed her eyes. The snow fell faster. It filled her angel wings, piling in ridges around her body. Falling asleep in the snow was certain death, but painless. Ruvik stared at her, her tiny body disappearing under the pristine white. Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes. Her lips turned pale. He realized  _ this _ was her dream, a dream of death. She wanted to die painlessly.

Ruvik pulled back, all the way back, out of Zoyenka’s bedroom and the apartment building. He left Sebastian’s flickering light and Zoyenka’s golden beacon in the night. He retreated from Krimson, flew back over the suburbs and into the villa.

Ruvik’s body acknowledged his return with a gasp. The Laura-red room became sharper in his vision. He looked around at everything that reminded him of her, the colors, the softness. Laura was dead. She had been for a very long time now. She had been ripped from the world, pulled apart so violently, so  _ unfairly _ . 

There was the hate, the blossoming roses and poppies, soaked in blood, lit on fire, ripped from a garden of magma and ash, bound in a bouquet with bones, secured with barbed wire. Hate. Hate at the injustice, anger at the action. Hate at the loss and hate at the scars the loss left. Hate. Loss.

But…

Zoyenka. She  _ lived _ . She lived a life of pain. Death would be a respite. Laura had lived a life of joy. Her death was a black void.

Ruvik stood and ran his hands through his hair. He had his hate back, his hate and all the fiery indignation it brought with it. But…

Zoyenka.

A girl like Laura, like the Laura he loved so much he ached. Laura, the only good Ruvik had ever known. Laura, the ‘angel before death,’ just like his mother had said, just like his father had written in her funeral sermon. Zoyenka was a girl like Laura, the Laura he could not have saved.

But Zoyenka… was not Laura.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian gets back from a visit to work to find that he needs to watch Zoey. The night isn't going to be a straightforward as the ones before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really suck at describing chapters. This one is a good deal longer than the other chapters, but most of it is dialogue. Enjoy~  
> (My editing game is weak. Sorry for any mistakes...)

_The hammer clicks in place_

_The world's gonna pay_

_Right down in the face of God and his saints_

_Claim your soul's not for sale_

“Things That Scare Me” by Neko Case

 

Summer was not Sebastian’s favorite month. There were too many bugs and the humidity got to him every year. With the air heavy, it was harder to breathe. Joseph had teased him about that, his unrelenting “old man” jokes muttered just loud enough so Sebastian could hear. The joking would then turn to real concern when Joseph heard him out of breath, like after a run, of a couple of hurried flights of stairs. “Sebastian,” he would say, all serious eyes and serious voice. “You’ve got to stop smoking.” Sebastian would take out another cigarette to spite him. He would let it dangle from his bottom lip and stare, wide-eyed, until Joseph laughed or relented. It depended on the day.

There was no use to do that anymore. Sebastian really had made an effort to quit before Beacon, but the impending lung cancer or whatever the hell else he’d get seemed like less of a threat now. He still hated summer, but that was an inherent quality of his personality, unlike nicotine addiction. That one was a choice, even if a poor one.

Musty smelling air conditioning hit him as he walked into the lobby of his apartment building. The main floor was saturated with swamp smell, but it wasn’t that bad considering what the alleys of Krimson smelled like in the summer. Sebastian was a fervent supporter that Krimson would one day take Chicago’s place as most violent city. It was already leagues above in terms of uncleanliness.

Sebastian took out a cigarette on his way to the elevator. A couple of kids turned his way as he passed, maybe teens, maybe college age.

“Hey old timer, care to share?”

“No.”

“Aww come on. ‘S not like you need any more of ‘em.”

“Piss off, kid.”

“Hey, you got a fuckin’ issue or sumthin’?” the kid spat. Sebastian wrinkled his brow and gave him _the stare_ . That’s what Joseph called it, or other times it was _the chin tilt of death_. Joseph never was too good at intimidation. He was a little too soft around the edges, and try as he might to hide it, he stuck out. He always had. Joseph had believed there was an underlying good in all people, and that theory had gotten him hurt multiple times. Sebastian was careless when it came to certain things, but at the end of the day, he was in charge. That was what everyone knew about him: Sebastian Castellanos did not take kindly to other people’s shit.

The other two boys behind the loudmouth moved to back their friend up. Sebastian fought an eye roll.

“You kids know I’m a cop, right?”

His comment was icewater on coals. The trio exchanged nervous glances, the leader not wanting to seem intimidated. He gave Sebastian the finger as the group walked out. They about ran into a woman with groceries, but the one at the back caught the door for her at the last second. Marisha gave a smile but it died on her lips once the boys were out of sight.

“Fucking youth,” she spat, hustling over to Sebastian’s side. “Push the button?”

Sebastian did. He then proceeded to wrestle one of the bags out of Marisha’s arms.

“Let me take this.”

“You’re such a sweetheart.” the woman grinned, batting her long eyelashes. Her demeanor changed as she gestured out the door. “What was it they wanted?”

“You saw that?” Sebastian asked.

“What’s above my nose, Castellanos?”

“Your glasses?” he quipped. The elevator dinged and the pair waited for the surge of ill-dressed people to exit before they got on. Marisha lept in first and kept her foot over the threshold. Sebastian followed her. She pressed her floor, not his, and Sebastian realized he had just signed himself up for grocery unpacking duty. It wasn’t like he had anything else better to do anyway. Marisha poked him in the side.

“My eyes, smart one. They wanted a cigarette?”

“What else would they want? My coat?”

“It’s a nice coat,” Marisha hummed. “But I wouldn’t give those assholes candy cigarettes even if it was Halloween.”

“Why such blatant hostility?”

“You know how I told you that someone broke into our apartment a few years ago? Before you moved in and before we had Zoyenka, thank God. Anyway, it was that tall kid and his older brother, I’m sure of it.”

“Did you file a report?”

Marisha laughed.

“One way or another, Jack and I decided it was better not having the police snooping around.”

Sebastian frowned at her.

“And you invited me in?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you--”

The elevator doors opened and Marisha stepped out into the hall. Sebastian shook his head and followed. He fully believed Marisha was a good person; how could she not be, taking in her sick niece and getting a second job to help pay the medical bills? If there was one thing Sebastian knew for certain, it was the reality that great people could still fall on hard times. He loved the woman more than he could put into words. Marisha was his sister and mother in equal measure, a damned strange combination, but it wouldn’t be hard to overlook little things if they ever arose.

Marisha unlocked the door and Sebastian followed her inside. The tell-tale _Law and Order_ ding rang out from the living room.

“Zoyenka! I’m back!”

Footsteps padded into the kitchen, and Sebastian smiled. Zoyenka squeezed around the counter and sat on one of the bar stools.

“Hi.”

“Hey there. How’d your appointment go?”

“Fine. Doctor says I’m doing well.”

“You look good.”

“I got a really good sleep last night.”

“That’s great.”

“Seb?”

Sebastian paused, one arm arched up into the cabinet, and twisted to look at the young girl. She sat with her chin on her fist, a mischievous smile spread across her face. The dullness of her eyes was gone, and there was a trace of pink smeared across her cheeks.

“Yeah.”

“Leave the Poptarts out.”

Sebastian grinned and retracted his arm. Marisha intervened.

“Oh no. No Poptarts right before dinner. You have to follow your diet, little one.”

Zoyenka collapsed onto the countertop, flailing her arms.

“Oh go join a drama club.” Marisha huffed. “Actually, that reminds me. Sebastian?”

“Yep?”

“Would you mind watching Zoyenka tonight? I have a cleaning job at the theater.”

Sebastian stayed silent until the girl perked up from her spot. He wrinkled his nose.

“Do I _have_ to?”

“Hey!”

Marisha burst into laughter, and Sebastian chuckled.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You’re no problem, Zoey.” He turned to Marisha, handing her a box of instant rice. “What time?”

“Seven ‘till three.”

Sebastian whistled. “Shit, I hope you have an army to help. That must be one big theater.”

“It’s the one on the corner of South Grand and Key Lime.”

“We have a street called _Key Lime_?” Sebastian asked. Marisha ogled his astonished expression and lapsed into another laughing fit. “Must be a ritzy area. Never got called there.”

“Oh it is. It’s about as ritzy as your five o'clock shadow.”

Sebastian rubbed his chin and frowned. Zoyenka cast him a pitying look.

“Don’t worry. I still think you’re handsome.”

Sebastian smiled and stretched out his arm. “Here! This is a girl with fine taste!” He leaned in and patted her cheek. “It’s a date then.”

Over the sound of Zoyenka’s giggles, Marisha banged her head into the cabinet door, shaking with laughter.

“Aw shit!” She turned to glare at the detective, sweeping her hand up and down. “You will not date my niece looking like _that_ , Castellanos! Go get you ass cleaned up!”

Zoyenka blushed and Sebastian glanced down at his watch.

“I have two hours,” he declared.  “Just enough time to work my magic.”

“Go, then! I can finish my own groceries, thank you very much!”

Backing out of the kitchen, Sebastian raised his hands in surrender. He leaned over to Zoyenka.

“Your aunt is just jealous. She knows what a catch I am.”

A box of macaroni and cheese struck him in the shoulder, and Sebastian reeled back, feigning injury. He leaned against the wall and stumbled to the door.

“I’m hit!” he called. Zoyenka’s laughter rang in his ears as he exited.

The hallway was drastically different than Marisha’s apartment. He sighed as he shut the door. The warmth and light evaporated, leaving only a tingle of happiness behind. Sebastian could manage with Zoyenka, laugh and tease her so that she thought nothing of his inner turmoil. It was easy to force his face into a smile with her around. It was the same with Marisha, though with her he could show more of his true colors. The woman knew dejection the same as he did, though Sebastian had her trumped in the regard of fear. Hatred, too.

Fluorescent lights flickered as Sebastian made his way to the elevator. He drug his feet now, something he had never done before, not even after Lily. Even then he still had a cause: justice was alive, then. Now, well, justice was not a nice concept.

Sebastian’s floor was even more oppressive, a little warmer, a little swampier. He paused outside his door. It wasn’t healthy to dwell. He knew that. The Chief had forced him to see a shrink a little after the incidents of Beacon. He didn’t tell her anything; he hadn’t told anyone anything. She wouldn’t have believed him. In some ways, Sebastian had hoped it would work, but his own “unwillingness,” as the doctor called it, was a permanent block in his treatment. The only one who could take it down was him.

It wasn’t worth it. So what if Sebastian relived every moment in STEM, perched on some therapist’s couch? Where would it get him? A mental hospital, that was for sure. And for more reasons than one, Sebastian was not sure he could handle that.

And Ruvik…

Sebastian unlocked his door and slammed it behind him. He stared at the bolts as he slid each one closed, then open, and closed again. It didn’t fucking matter. Nothing fucking mattered. He couldn’t lock out memories. He couldn’t lock out screams. He couldn’t lock out the image of Kidman brandishing a gun or Ruvik’s scarred face or Joseph’s lips bubbling blood. Those things were _inside_ him, worming around in his guts and his brain. Sometimes he wanted to take a knife and slice it all out, each vision, each word. But that wouldn’t help either.

_Keep yourself occupied:_ the thought thundered through his mind. Sebastian nodded in agreement with himself. That was how it went, how it had gone for a long time. Stay busy, but that was often easier said than done. Lists helped.

Sebastian picked his way through to the kitchen and fetched a notepad from one of the drawers. His apartment looked like hell, but everything was in its place--he knew just where everything was. Paranoid was not a word Sebastian would have ever thought would come to describe him, but here he was, barricading his door and shielding his windows with three layers of curtains. Life was funny that way--it was a damned pain, too.

“Alright, come on. You got two hours. Get a hold of yourself.” Sebastian whispered. He plucked a pen from the counter and began to write.

_Shower._

_Shave._

_Brush teeth._

He looked down at the list and scowled. Should he wash clothes first? No, he had a clean shirt and pants somewhere, didn’t he?

The back of his neck prickled. Reflexes took over this time and he spun to face the empty room, the empty room he couldn’t bring himself to believe was simply empty.

In movies, a disembodied presence was always shown by light or darkness, by an unexplainable shimmer in the air. Ruvik didn’t work like that. In the STEM, there were little glitches around him, denotation of the world bowing to his supremacy. Here, he simply existed where he hadn’t before.

Sebastian shook his head. There was nothing there, but the screaming of his mind--YES, YES THERE IS SOMETHING THERE YOU IDIOT DO YOU NOT FEEL THE SAME WAY YOU DID IN THE STEM WHEN HE WAS WATCHING YOU WHEN HE WAS FOLLOWING YOU WHEN THINGS APPEARED OUT OF NONEXISTENCE THERE IS SOMETHING THERE--insisted differently. Sebastian wanted to hear Ruvik’s voice, his cultured disapproval for everything Sebastian was and had been, just so that Sebastian could say he wasn’t imagining this. He had fought Ruvik once, and he could do it again if that was what was called for, but the uncanny whisper that maybe Ruvik was _in him,_ fucking around in his mind with an eggbeater, was almost too much to bear.

“Do you get your kicks off of this, you little shit?” Sebastian whispered. He kept his voice low in case he was mistaken, in case he was just going insane. He did not get an answer, and he was losing time.

He wandered into his bedroom, the to-do list still clutched in his fist. Shoving things out of the way to get to his dresser, Sebastian picked through its drawers to find something presentable. The chill on his back was still there, but he focused on the task at hand. He settled for a fitted maroon shirt that still had the tags on it (where the fuck had it come from?), and jeans that weren’t too stained or too old. He laid all of that and a pair of boxers on the bed and eyed the bathroom.

“If you are here, let me shower in peace.” he declared. Again, no answer. He sighed and began to strip.

If there was one good thing to say about the apartment building, it had great hot water. Sebastian just stood for a while, enjoying the heat, before actually starting the showering part of a shower. There was something about steam that cleared his head, which was strange considering he hated humidity. It was most likely because he could choose when to turn the water off.

Sebastian had a shower ritual (he had one for most things, actually). He always washed his hair first. If he didn’t, the whole thing felt weird, like if he had walked into a movie theater twenty minutes too late. He always started with his hair and then scrubbed his body. Left arm, right arm. Right leg, left leg. Everything else. Rinse. Finish. That was how it was done. Sometimes he would remain under the water even longer, soaking it in. Today he had a schedule to keep.

He turned off the water but paused before opening the shower door. The steam wafted around him. He would be lying to himself to say he was not afraid of something being out there, lurking. That was, after all, Ruvik’s style. He played upon fear and then backed off at the last second, only to return when his prey’s guard was down.

Sebastian chuckled.

“I’m not your prey.”

Silence.

Sebastian opened the door. Nothing charged in from the bedroom. Nothing began to limp down the hall. Sebastian poked his head around the doorway just to be sure, and then plucked a clean-ish towel from the rack and began to dry off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and eyed the mirror. He crept towards it, expecting to see Ruvik behind him, maybe even Joseph--Ruvik never played fair.

There was nothing save Sebastian’s own reflection, his skin red from the heat. His hair dripped water down his back, the strands longer than he usually let them get. A sallowness stared back at him, something he hadn’t seen in a long while. His cheeks were more hollow and there was more silver in his hair than before Beacon. He couldn’t help that. He ran his hand over his stubble. He could help that.

All throughout his life, Sebastian held a knack for making common things meditative. It was a shame it hadn’t helped him more, but shaving was one of the things he sort of enjoyed, a simple pleasure he couldn’t quite pin down. It was similar to smoking--inhale, exhale, that sort of thing. His mind wandered to Zoyenka and if she’d want to order pizza or Chinese food. Would she want to play a game or go to the park? Sometimes they just drove around when the weather was nice, and Sebastian would tell her stories of simpler times.

He’d tell stories about before he took a one way train to the inner circle of hell and had to fight his way out. Before Lily died… before Joseph died.

_“Pity, that. Strength is quite relative, isn’t it?”_

Ruvik’s voice came out of nowhere, striking Sebastian like a blade in the back. He jumped and nicked his cheek with the razor. A fat drop of blood splattered onto the all-white porcelain of the sink, running thickly down to the drain. Another followed.

_“It’s such an endearing color,_ Seb. _More people should wear it more often.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically my psychological profile on Seb and Ruvik and why I write them like I do. You don't have to read this.  
> Alright, so I want to say that I hope this doesn't feel like filler. I've always been one of those people who adores realistic characters, and one of the things that makes characters realistic is how they interact with others, themselves, and things on a more normal basis. Most of you reading this know how Sebastian would act when faced with a five-headed monster with toes coming from its eye sockets. But what about elevator rides? Interacting with neighbors? Does he wash his clothes often? Is he a neat freak? I feel exploring these things is especially important for fanfiction, since I'm borrowing someone else's idea and running with it. I want to make it believable, and I sure as hell hope I'm doing okay. Sure I've taken liberties, but that's only to be expected. For instance, I love the idea that Sebastian adores children because his own child died, so he goes out of his way to take care of them and show them affection. This isn't a "canon" idea, but my interpretation is based off of what info I do know about his personality. Ruvik is 10 million times harder than this. He has a shitty past and we know he's dealt with it in the worst way possible, but there's a man under than machine. I like to think he is extremely empathetic, but warps it into something evil because he does not know how to deal with softer emotions, e.g. loyalty and love. He is not used to these things. His father was an asshole and Jimenez backstabbed him and stole the only thing Ruvik was passionate about. It's obvious he has survivor's guilt about Laura. I can take it a step further and say that STEM was formulated to retain and morph to other people because that's how Ruvik designed it. How could he so drastically influence and interpret people's worst fears if he can't connect with them on an emotional level? The STEM allowed him unbridled emotions, at least for a bit. Ugh. Maybe I'm making this too difficult, but overthinking is literally my superpower. I'm gonna cut it here. I'm rambling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruvik and Sebastian have a little chat, and it turns out that a deal with the devil often appears fair... or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's another chapter in Seb's POV, after I said there wouldn't be many of them. But who am I kidding? Sebastian and I are both made out of coffee and angst. Writing him feels natural.  
> And of course the shortest chapter has to follow the longest (consistency be damned!).

_And I run from wolves, ooh_   
_Tearing into me_   
_Without teeth_

"Wolves Without Teeth" by Of Monsters and Men

 

There was always a twinge that began at the top of his spine, a sharp little pinprick that followed a nightmare. It never took long for the feeling to travel downward, down to the small of his back, where it pooled in pent up energy. Sebastian knew adrenaline. He was a detective. He knew the surge of power that came with a chase or the swell of pride after a successful arrest. He knew the excitement of his feet hitting pavement, of gaining and overtaking someone. It was a rush, a high. The feelings of waking up in the dark with the need to run were far less enjoyable. 

The dreams did not happen every night; Sebastian made sure of that. He couldn’t handle it if they did. Always the same setting, always the same outcome, his dreams were a limbo. They were his personal hell when the waking world was not enough to cut him down. Sebastian tried to control the dreams. He did.

Being chased was absolute terror. 

Knowing the outcome was somehow worse.

But in the daytime Sebastian did not fear. It was useless, a waste of energy. His paranoia was a gift, a coping mechanism he had cut out and stitched together, a homemade remedy to keep him on his toes. If he was constantly prepared for the worst that might happen, he could get through it with ease.

If the absence of trembling and paralysis was any consolation, Sebastian could say he had been right, and he didn’t even have a Ph.D.

Ruvik--the formless apparition--was at his back. Similar to the first time Ruvik had visited him, there was a slight pain in his head. It started out with a pang--the reason he had dropped the plate and the reason his hand slipped with the razor. Within a second it was gone, replaced by a sensation of his head being full,  _ occupied. _ It was like a head cold without all the more nasty things that went with it.

Sebastian watched his blood creep down the sink, refusing to indulge Ruvik’s wanton desire to see more of it. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water at the red beads. They swirled down the drain.

“What do you want?” he spat. 

_ “Just dropping by.” _

There was a small glint in the mirror and Sebastian followed it. Ruvik paced (if he could call it that) back and forth over the floor. Sebastian turned around, but the shimmer was gone. In the mirror, it remained. He grunted and jabbed a finger at it.

“What is it with you and mirrors, huh?”

_ “That is a question for personal reflection, Seb.” _

Sebastian couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.

“First, don’t call me that. Second, your sense of humor is about as dead as your sister.”

That comment earned some silence. Sebastian hoped the retort might have pissed Ruvik off enough for him to go magically flying back to wherever he came from, given he didn’t like being challenged. Sebastian leaned back against the sink, resting his elbows on the lip, when he felt it--claws ripping down the side of his face. He knew it wasn’t real; Ruvik couldn’t  _ do _ that. It was something mental, a hijacking of the nerves in his cheek. All he had to do was tell himself it wasn’t real, but  _ holy shit _ , did it hurt! It was the gnawing of rent skin and the pulsing agony of a burn married together, unholy and excruciating. His jaw clamped shut and his teeth ached all the way to their roots. A hand flew to his face to end whatever contact was there, and it took a moment for Sebastian to realize it was  _ his _ hand. It did nothing. His brain told him there was blood running from the injury, an infection lurking within the torn scraps of skin. His shoulders felt the drip, drip of the imagined blood, warm and sticky and meandering down to cover the rest of his body. It was a false sensation--false! Ruvik couldn’t do that, not here, not this way. Ruvik just couldn’t do that…

The pain left. All of the induced responses of his body surged back up and exited through the still-whole side of Sebastian’s face. He doubled over, side shoved against the bathroom wall for support. All of it was gone, every single conjured feeling. His head didn’t even throb.

_ “I can do that again. I can do it worse.” _

Sebastian tried to speak, but though he was without pain, his lips were numb. His tongue felt too large between his teeth. He only managed a grunt.  
_“I’m trying to be cordial. My intrusion the other day was far less smooth than I wanted it to be. Forgive me.”_

“F-f...k you…”

_ “I know you’re not the kind of man to make a deal with the devil lightly, Sebastian. Yet, you’re not the kind of man to refuse either. It looks to me like you have little left to lose.” _

“If you h-have this power, go take whatever the fuck you want. Leave me out of it. I’ve paid for my sins enough as it is.”

_ “You are still paying for them. It is clear to me you won’t pay them off anytime soon.” _

“I will once you leave me alone.” Sebastian refuted. He pushed himself up the wall and gripped the edge of the sink. Ruvik’s glint was behind him, closer than before. He had stopped pacing. Sebastian blinked and then the light was next to him, right over his shoulder, startlingly bright in the mirror.

_ “You and I both know that’s untrue.”  _ Ruvik’s choppy glow was steady in the warm air.  _ “It is always those in a position of power who can offer respite. Protestantism was sprouted from the blasphemy of absolutions. Priests would sell church sanctioned documents to absolve sins. Some things cannot be cleared away by the self alone. Tell me, what would you give to receive a blank slate?”  _

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I slept through eighth grade history.” Sebastian dismissed, but he could not remove his eyes from the mirror.

_ “Your fear for me is gone. That is clear. I only have one power over you now, and that is pain. For as long as you exist, you will be able to feel it. Pain is the very essence of being human, but it can be dulled. If you aid me in getting what I want, I will relinquish that control over you and ease the ache of your mind.” _

Sebastian ran his hand over his cheek. It was an absent action, tracing the places he believed had been sliced open. There wasn’t even a mark. Sebastian considered the offer.

“That’s a pretty big thing for you to give up. That can only mean what you would get in return is more satisfying than watching me writhe around on the floor.”

_ “There are few things more enjoyable.”  _ Ruvik said, and Sebastian ignored the mischievous undertone of his words, though it churned his stomach.  _ “And you are right.” _

“So what do you want?”

_ “Think of it as redemption.” _

Sebastian scoffed. “You need to be more specific.”

_ “Science is useless if it cannot be implemented. I learned many things by my experiments. The young girl upstairs is dying.” _

A coldness came into the room. It grabbed Sebastian by vice-grip hands, snaking around his limbs and edging into his guts. It wasn’t going to happen again.  _ He _ would not let it happen again. Sebastian would endure Ruvik’s torture for an eternity if it meant letting Zoyenka live the rest of her life safe from his clutches. He’d give himself up eagerly, let Ruvik poke and prod in his brain with abandon. He’d choose the same a thousand times. 

Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but Ruvik’s voice cut through the air like a knife. His words were the farthest they could be from what Sebastian expected.

_ “I want to save her.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love the idea of Ruvik speaking in riddles and using history to back up a point. He didn't get a classical-ish education for nothing, people!  
> More accurately, Lutheranism was spawned partly out of absolutions and by extention, Protestantism. Basically absolutions were scraps of paper sold by the Catholic church (sold, mind you) that forgave sins. Now, what I'm describing is referencing the middle ages. Absolutions apparently still exist in the Catholic church. You can Wikipedia it for better explanation in modern terms. I'm not Catholic so I can't sit down and explain it. Martin Luther thought that was pretty shady since the Church took it upon themselves to absolve sins rather than leaving that to God. Basically, it was just the Church saying: yeah, we're pretty much God himself. And that's also the theme for most of Western history.   
> (I'm not trying to be derogatory to people of any faith here, just explaining a little because I thought it needed explanation. There are other sects of Christianity that practice this too, not just Roman Catholicism.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men with hidden agendas stand on common ground. But how can the Devil make a deal with a soulless man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've found the song that fits this entire thing: Devil Like Me by Rainbow Kitten Surprise.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rB3GPb-ylVI
> 
> This chapter is also kinda short. I think they'll get longer once I pin down Seb and Ruvik's interactions more. And, you know, actually get into the plot...PLOT, WHAT PLOT? NO ONE TOLD ME THERE NEEDED TO BE A PLOT!?  
> *slams face into keyboard*

_Is the devil so bad if he cries in his sleep, while the earth turns_

_And his kids learned to say, fuck you they don't, love you_

_Does the devil get scared if she dies in her dreams, where the earth burns?_

_She cries cause she's nothing like you, is she like you?_

_What you want from a devil like me, devil like me?_

_You see the devil don't mean to be evil, he just regrettably forgets to exceed expectation_

“Devil Like Me” by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

 

Sebastian’s face wavered in Ruvik’s vision. The thoughts racing through his mind overpowered the physical sight of him, mental gauze over corporeal features. Colors--emotions--flickered and sputtered in the air. It was difficult for Ruvik not to get lost in that electricity. It was like wine, an aged wine, aromatic and sensual. (Every mind had a certain draw, something unique, even if just a cosmetic variation.)

Another bead of blood escaped the cut on Sebastian’s cheek, and Ruvik reached to wipe it away. His touch succeeded in condensing the flurry of emotions into a singular reaction: disgust.

_“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”_ Sebastian spat. He turned back to the sink and wetted a washcloth. He wiped the blood away, smearing it across his cheekbones for a split second, sort of like an artificial blush.

The art of mind invading was not mutual, and Sebastian growled:

_“Are you waiting to explain or are you just gonna leave me to dwell on your hollow promise and whatever it means?”_

“I’ll explain,” Ruvik assured, and he kept his voice steady. His admittance had not been that difficult to utter, but the incessant nail of paranoia kept scratching at his will. There were a million things that could go wrong in the course of Ruvik’s plan and only a handful that could go right; he had calculated the odds.

_“Well?”_ Sebastian glared into the mirror, following the small movements Ruvik made behind him. Ruvik stayed silent, mostly because he enjoyed the exasperation that bled from Sebastian’s anxious foot-shifting. The man watched him a moment more before plucking his watch from the sink edge. He scowled down at it. _“So you know I have to be somewhere for something, right?”_

“Did that level of ambiguity get you to your detective status, Detective?” Ruvik chuckled  and Sebastian’s shoulders arched at the sound. “Don’t worry. I know about your little date. Why else would I be here?”

_“Quit beating around the bush! I don’t have time for this!”_

“You have quite a bit of time, unless it takes you an hour to get dressed. You didn’t strike me as one of those kind.”

_“Yeah? What about you? How long do you have, floating around like a ghost? Isn’t that bad for, you know, Leslie’s body?”_

Ruvik sneered though Sebastian could not see it. The urge to spit a viciously intoned ‘indefinitely!’ surged through him. But to say that would have been a lie. He was unsure how long he could remain untethered like this, but the prospect did not unnerve him much. If anything, _his_ body would sit in a comatose state until he made his way back, on his own time.

“It’s nice to see you looking out for me, Sebastian.”

_“Not the case. Maybe I can keep you occupied until Leslie comes back and he can waltz off so you can’t find him.”_

“That’s… not the case.” Ruvik mocked.

_“And? Explanation?”_

“There are understandings I have found these past months. I’m sure you know what it is like to feel useless, causeless, if you will.”

_“Then go play doctor somewhere else.”_ Sebastian shook his head. “ _Why is your second-life crisis cause for my concern?”_

Ruvik bit his tongue, if only in expression. There were many things he could say, if he wanted. There were many reasons he could feign to the man before him. It was true that Sebastian was his--body, mind, and spirit. Those words in the STEM were not a flippant, spur of the moment threat. Sebastian knew this too, but it was a kind of bone marrow-knowledge, something ingrained into his very being. He had blocked it out, and Ruvik did not need to play that card yet. But a complete confession was equally useless.

He started pacing again.

“The girl is… special.”

Sebastian ground his teeth before he spoke. _“You’ve been around her?”_

“No.” Ruvik lied. “I cannot explain to you the full details of this existence, but it is purely mental. I can sense things around me. I stumbled across her while looking for you. Her brain operates in a way I recognize and it would be such a pity for that talent to go to waste.”

Ruvik registered the increase in Sebastian’s breath and the cold tensing of his muscles. So there was his reason, half thought out but believable enough. This was what he chose to tell the man: his was an emotionless, scientific cause, easier to understand, easier to pin to his personality. Zoyenka was a specimen--Ruvik wished his motivations were that simple.

_“Recognizable?”_ Sebastian mused. He checked his watch again and ran a hand through his hair. _“So like Leslie?”_

The question was warranted. Ruvik should have seen it coming. It was the next sequence if the conversation followed the rules of logic. He paused anyway.

“Yes. Like Leslie. But I have no motivation to utilize the girl the same way. She offers more promise, with her mind whole and body sickly. Leslie was quite the opposite. Taking him was fair.”

_“Shit. You know you’re talking about people, right? They aren’t gloves!”_

“Tell me, what do _you_ know about gloves? Are black ones better than brown ones? Does leather grip a gun well? They had to be hot in the summer. Did you ever ask him?” Ruvik taunted. Sebastian stared at the mirror, the lines of his face hard in the white light. He did not reply. Instead he slammed open the bathroom door and exited into the bedroom. Crossing to the side of the bed, he loomed over his clothes. Ruvik followed, aware of the pace and intensity of his thoughts. He leaned into them but was met with a wall. It was weak, more like someone leaning against a door instead of locking it. Ruvik gave Sebastian the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he could prove himself more endearing if he kept the leash a bit longer.

Sebastian started to dress. Ruvik was invisible to him, but all the same Sebastian glanced around before dropping the towel from his waist. There was much to see, but Ruvik did not take the opportunity most would have. If anything, Sebastian’s legs were more intriguing than what was between them. The detective’s endurance in the STEM was well noted, and Ruvik studied the solid curves of muscle on his calves. The fleeting question of whether Sebastian’s leg still hurt from the phantom gash slipped into Ruvik’s mind. He wondered what pains Sebastian still felt--and if subtle enough, Ruvik pondered how he could make them ache again.

Regardless of the whispers of small minds, Ruvik held no esteem for de Sade. Pain and pleasure were similar reactions, but one was useful and the other was a hindrance. It was a drug. The viewing of Sebastian’s bare chest was merely to appreciate the size of his lungs; how far he had ran, dreaming. Ruvik doubted he could do anything similar here. (The whole apartment smelled of smoke; everyone would get lung cancer just from living in the building.) But that was an interesting concept: Sebastian possessed the ability to push himself much farther than anyone else mentally--would he be able to do so physically.

_“I can feel that.”_

“My attention?”

_“Yeah, like someone running barbed wire across my ass.”_ Sebastian quipped. He shrugged on a shirt and frowned at it. Ruvik watched as shot his arm out and ripped off the tag that dangled from the fabric. _“You know, I don’t think this is quite fair.”_

“What do you find unfair?” Ruvik questioned, gliding nearer to the now dressed man. Sebastian teetered as he slipped on a pair of worn socks, ultimately landing on the bed.

_“You called this idea a devil’s deal. I don’t agree with that. I’ve been around enough fuckups to know that one person always gets the better half.”_ He shook his head, lips contorted into a perversion of a smile. It was surprising, really. Sebastian had darkness--he had had it in the STEM, he had had it in his day to day life--but this was different. Ruvik had always been aware of those moments when Sebastian collapsed after a fight, praying to God and Jesus or whoever would listen. His remembered, half-whispered comments to Myra and the bedtime stories Sebastian recited from memory--Lily’s favorites that he could never let go of--were music to Ruvik’s ears. But even then, when it was all around him, the man had not succumbed to the darkness. Perhaps it was easier to oppose when fighting for his life. Ruvik matched Sebastian’s black smirk with his own. He was still weak, but now, in a more hidden way.

“And I suppose you think I’m getting the better half.”

_“I sure as hell do. What, you get me as a plaything, Zoey as a lab rat, and you get to fulfill whatever sadistic desire you have to_ help _someone. I’m thinking that’s not equal.”_

Ruvik cocked his head, or rather imagined he did.

“Your beloved surrogate child’s life is not enough for you?”

_“Oh, it is. It’s great, really. But here’s how I see it.”_ Sebastian stood from the bed and walked back into the bathroom. Ruvik did not follow immediately.

Sebastian retrieved his watch. Slapping it on his wrist, he watched the mirror until Ruvik appeared, his shimmer catching Sebastian’s eye. Ruvik walked right up next to him.

The elation was fantastic. Whatever game this was, Sebastian was playing it so very well.

_“Here’s my offer. You get to keep your terms, all of them. But, if whatever you do to Zoey doesn’t work--if she dies or you hurt her,_ I _get to kill you. For real this time. You can’t do medical shit as a ghost, so you’re going to need to bring your body around here at some point.”_ Sebastian gazed into the mirror and then twisted to face where Ruvik stood. Ruvik stared back, grateful for Sebastian’s inability to see the shock on his face. _“Well, are you going to accept my terms?”_

“I never took you for a greedy man.” Ruvik said.

Oh yes, Sebastian played this game well, almost too well.  

_“Time does things. You know that. Look at yourself as proof. I never took you for a coward.”_ Sebastian grimaced and gave a bark of rough laughter. _“Devil, huh? Did I just scare you?”_

“Quite the opposite. I find it captivating.”

_“So, you cure Zoyenka and get to fuck with me even more. If you don’t cure her, I get to kill you. Sound right?”_

“Are you throwing your sanity in with the things I can claim as my own?”

Sebastian shook his head, semi-damp locks of hair dripping onto his shirt. He tapped on Ruvik’s reflection in the mirror.

_“Sorry to say it, but I can’t offer what I don’t have.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem, so I've been working on approx. 3 other stories while also in the middle of this. College is coming up soon. My brain is fried. I typed this up with Henna crusted on my wrist. One of my cats wants to eat me. And oh, did I mention how damn difficult Ruvik is to write?
> 
> Marquis de Sade is the man responsible for the terms sadism and sadistic. He was a French philosopher whose works on sexuality successfully labeled him a deviant and eventually turned his very name into something deplorable (what a legacy!). Ruvik references him because de Sade was, well, a sadist who found causing pain sexually arousing. And Ruvik tells us he is on the opposite side of that spectrum. Yeah, whatever floats your boat there, Ruben.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian is secretly an escapist and Ruvik realizes saving Zoey might mean more to him than originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *poof*  
> Hey look! A wild new chapter appears!

_ When I think of happiness, innocence and truth _

_ In an almost perfect person, that's when I think of you _

_ Now when I say almost perfect, believe me I meant all _

_ Because, my dear, the way I see it, I'm your only flaw _

“I’m Your Only Flaw” by Josh Abbott Band

 

Zoyenka was at the door. She had cracked it open and lounged against the frame, criss-cross-applesauce with a book in her lap. Sebastian knew she heard him come up even though her face was twisted in concentration at the ratty paperback before her.

“What ‘cha reading?”

“ _ Frankenstein. _ ” she whispered. The spell then broken by conversation, she frowned and glanced up. “Have you ever read it?” 

“Yeah. A long time ago.”

Marisha’s voice was a perfect distraction. Sebastian wanted to cry--good God did he want to cry--but he couldn’t, not now. Not for a while.

“Castellanos? Did you finally drag your ass up here?”

“Yeah!” he called into the apartment. Dropping his eyes back to Zoyenka, he gave her his best smile. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Are you going to let me have Poptarts?”

If Sebastian tried, he could forget the events of the past hours. If he put an effort into blocking it from his mind, he could forget Ruvik’s deal. He could forget he bartered with Zoey’s life as if he had any right to it at all. He could forget and drift with the times like he had done so often before Beacon. Yes, Sebastian could block it out if he tried, but every attempt drained him just a little bit more; as he winked at Zoey and watched her grin, he realized he no longer had the energy for it. Sebastian helped her up, grasping her bony hand in his own, and ushered her into the apartment. 

She could have all the sweets she damned wanted, if it was up to him. The thought which followed sent a chill down his spine:

_ Ruvik better know exactly what he’s doing. _

Marisha stood in the kitchen, eating a piece of pizza over the sink. She was dressed in white--her cleaner’s outfit--her hair devoid of its usual curl. She looked stern, a force to be reckoned with, and she chuckled at the pair as they came in.

“Look what the cat spat up.”

“It’s  _ look what the cat dragged in _ ,” Zoyenka corrected, pulling out a bar stool and perching on it like earlier.

“Stupid saying anyway.” Marisha huffed. “The cats I’ve known puke more than they drag things around.”

Sebastian laughed, and Marisha whirled on him.

“You had cats?”

“When I was a kid.” Sebastian answered. 

“So a very long time ago.” Marisha teased. She sighed. “I’ve got to go. Don’t burn the building down, don’t get the police called.”

“I am the police.”

Marisha quirked her mouth. “I’ll say it again Castellanos.”

“We’ll be fine.” Zoyenka interjected, her voice the epitome of all pre-teen exasperation. Marisha laughed and kissed her on the head, combing her wispy strands of hair with her fingers.

“Have fun you two!”

The door latched and then there was just the two of them. Zoyenka curled herself farther onto the bar stool, fanning the pages of  _ Frankenstein _ . Sebastian leaned against the counter.

“So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want to watch a movie?”

“Nah.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I want Poptarts later.”

“Okay.” Sebastian scratched his chin. His finger drifted close to the shaving cut before he swung his arm back down. “What about now? We have a lot of time to kill.”

Zoyenka glanced at him under her eyelashes. 

“We could order pizza.” She paused for dramatic effect; there was a reason she wanted pizza. She was adept at never giving away information without gauging a person’s reaction first. It was one of the ways she had wrapped both Marisha and Jack around her finger. Sebastian did not know if they were aware of it or not. He was, and often he found it charming. Now, it made him wonder if Ruvik had the same tendencies in childhood, if manipulation was a genetic gift.

The sour look that passed over Sebastian’s face did not go unnoticed by Zoyenka. She sighed.

“Fine, I guess we could get tacos.”

“No, pizza is fine.” He replied hastily. Zoyenka furrowed her brow, and Sebastian spoke to rid his mind of the treacherous thought. Zoyenka was nothing like Ruvik, nothing like Ruben Victoriano. “Didn’t you guys just order pizza?”

He caught her, but he didn’t know what her caught her  _ in _ yet. Zoyenka leaned back as far as she could without falling off the stool.

“I really like pizza.”

“You like tacos too.”

“I like pizza better.”

“Okay, okay.” Sebastian backed off, scratching his head. “What kind do you want?”

“Sausage. With onions and green peppers.”

Sebastian smirked as he called it in. Zoey got her own pizza (she was very finicky about certain things). Sebastian got a large for himself, intending to stick it in the fridge and avoid a trip to the grocery store by a couple more days. When he hung up, Zoyenka had her nose stuck back in the book. Her heart wasn’t in the reading, though. He could see it in her eyes.

“Thirty-five minutes.”

Zoyenka perked up from the pages, the beginnings of an impish grin stretching her cheeks. It was cute. Sebastian had seen that smile before. It  _ was _ cute; he also found it a bit unnerving now, like an animal gloating after the kill. 

_ Goddamnit. Ruvik needed to get the fuck out of his head. _

“So?” Sebastian asked, ignoring the persistent  _ what if _ hanging around in the back of his mind.

“Tell me a story.” Zoyenka commanded. She shoved the book away, down to the end of the counter. It slid to a stop just before falling to the floor.

“A story?”

“Yeah.”  
“What kind of story?”

“Oh I don’t know…” Zoyenka widened her smile. “You have to have more crazy police stories, right? And don’t tell me if Joseph isn’t in them!”

The relief that flooded over him was almost physical, like a cool shower, or being dunked into a pool during summer. Sebastian smiled. Then he laughed. Police stories, yeah, he could do that. Whatever horrid wonderings that plagued his mind were gone. Pizza took time to get here, enough time to tell stories, but the food also a distraction so Sebastian wouldn’t lose it on her. Smart girl, smart  _ beautiful _ girl. 

Fuck Ruvik! Zoey may be like him, but she wasn’t  _ like _ him.

Sebastian pulled out the stool next to Zoyenka. He began talking, reliving the past escapades he and Joseph had shared. The girl’s eyes never left his. They held a longing, a desire for a life so different from the one she lived--from the one she likely wouldn’t have. So Sebastian told her all the glamorous things--catching bad guys, helping the world, shit like that which really didn’t amount to anything in reality--because as much as he hoped she’d get to see the world herself, he held a sinking suspicion that she never would.

Happily Sebastian told her about Joseph, about Lily, and even a little about Myra. He let himself sink into the memories of the good times.

Good times.

\--

This was good, extremely good, if Ruvik allowed himself to be optimistic. Sebastian had danced around the idea only a little; whatever he thought was the upper hand was pointless. Ruvik had always intended to do his job well. Perhaps, though, it was better to let Sebastian live in that little bubble of happy ignorance. He crafted it so perfectly every single time, and if Ruvik was a more humane person, he would have felt bad about popping it. As it was, he didn’t. But Sebastian needed to trust him (he would in due time). Letting him grasp an imaginary string of power would not hurt Ruvik in the least. Nothing could hurt him now.

There was a purpose again, a reason to wake up early and go to bed late. Ruvik pondered and cherished it all at once, that feeling, that gratefulness. Funny how being grateful was one of the things his father had preached, over and over, driving the point so far into the ground he hit magma. Funny it should prove so pleasing now, after all this time, after all his  _ sins.  _ Ruvik laughed.

All of it just felt  _ so good. _

Sebastian was back to his place, just where he should be, a plaything. Ruvik had all of his hate and all of his drive back in his skull where it belonged. Zoyenka was a gift. She was so beautifully rare Ruvik would have called her “god-given” if he wasn’t so stubborn. He was. 

Sitting in the Laura-room, thinking about her, the idea of a connection came back with full force. This time he did not push it away. Sebastian was too simple minded--that was a fact that could not be ignored. Understanding only came with intelligence. The only  _ friend _ Ruvik could ever have was someone equal to him (or just below, for the sake of pride). Laura had been absolute perfection, a homogenous mixture of both intelligence and empathy. She was rarer than what even Ruvik was.

Zoyenka had potential--there was no lie there. She was like Leslie--that much was true. The sum total of her value--her likeness to Laura--still needed to be determined. If she held the same abilities as him, Ruvik might just love her. If she had those as well as Laura’s whimsical nature, he would end up worshipping her. A friend. Laura had been a friend, yes? Yes. A magnificent friend, a sister, a lover of the soul.

Ruvik ran his fingers over the red armchair. 

He was to be Zoyenka’s doctor, right? Doctors could give gifts. Some had tried with him after the fire: flowers, candy, menial things because they knew no item could replace what was taken from him. If nothing else, he could make Sebastian do it. Sebastian might even enjoy it, even if he knew what the gift was. Ruvik didn’t have to tell him. He could seal it in a box, wrapped up and secure. Sebastian might even think it was… sweet.

What he thought wouldn’t matter anyway.

Zoyenka would look ravishing in red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. This one is also short. Not as short as chapter six, but still. Damn. It's only going to get worse, folks. College is around the corner. Pray for me?
> 
> And let's get it straight once and for all: I do not believe in Ruvik/Laura. I can see it one sided (Ruvik's side), and I tried to maybe convey that a little here. But other than that... no. Sorry.


End file.
